


you've got my devotion (but man i can hate you sometimes)

by skyekingsleigh



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Illya is used to being alone, Illya's POV, M/M, Napoleon is a thief, russian spy, spy boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22169221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyekingsleigh/pseuds/skyekingsleigh
Summary: Despite knowing better, Illya wishes he would not get caught up in the complex and terrifying vortex that is Napoleon Solo.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 233





	you've got my devotion (but man i can hate you sometimes)

**Author's Note:**

> title from harry styles' fine line. this is just me practicing on writing Illya.

Illya had always worked best alone. He had always been best at making up his own plans, his own tactics, and owning up to them. He has never failed before, and his superiors in Russia had never seen the need to make him work with the others. He was the lone wolf: the one who got the job done no matter the circumstances, the one who could take down a dozen armed men without needing backup. Illya had always been the best, and he had always worked alone. 

When he got partnered up with two _subpar_ agents, he might not have had a choice in the matter but he hated it. He hated having to suddenly listen to two other brains besides his own, had hated having to share the burdens of collaterals and semi-failures that only he should have shouldered. And _god_ did he hate Napoleon. Gaby he could tolerate, but the American? Illya _loathed_ him.

Napoleon had been so different. He was a pain in the ass most of the time and had no qualms of self-care, often times getting himself hurt and compromised, but he had also been forced into this. He wasn’t partnering up with him and Gaby like the American hero he looked to be. No matter how many times Illya had caught himself slipping, had witnessed the perfect dynamic he and Napoleon had and how in sync they could be, had caught himself thinking, _‘this isn’t so bad,’_ he cannot forget that this wasn’t what Cowboy would have wanted. This wasn’t something he had a choice over. This, this was punishment for his crimes. This was blackmail. This was prison masked with the idea of a choice and of freedom that would never really come. Illya knew it, and Napoleon did, too.

Perhaps that was the reason why it always seems to catch Illya by surprise whenever the American does something _good_. Sometimes Napoleon could seem so genuine in his want to help, in his need for doing something for the greater good, and Illya forgets. He forgets how Napoleon never really had a choice. It’s either do good or rot in a cell somewhere. 

It bothered him at first, how Napoleon seemed to have tricked the law. He was a thief, and he had managed to steal back his freedom right under the jury’s noses. He used to think the CIA foolish, for letting a conman one up them in this game. But that was all before he saw Napoleon work. That was before Illya had seen how easy it had been for the American to slip into another persona, another pretense in a split second, had witnessed firsthand how cunning and smart his mind could work under pressure, how effortlessly he could unlock and open the most complicated of safes in seconds. Give him 24 hours and Illya still wouldn’t have been able to do that. 

It was a weird change. One moment they were calling each other nicknames mockingly, constantly trying to one up each other, always on the brink of killing each other, and the next thing he knew, Illya is being drowned with panic and this looming sense of loss at just the thought of Napoleon being hurt. 

Despite knowing better, Illya wishes he would not get caught up in the complex and terrifying vortex that is Napoleon Solo. He wishes he did not have to hide a smile whenever the American says something of his dry-humored nature, wishes his heart didn’t escape his ribcage every time Napoleon calls him “Peril.” But Napoleon is a thief, and so all he does is steal and steal and steal every thing from him until he’s dried up and empty with nothing more to give. 

“You’re a hypocrite, you know,” Cowboy tells him once, in one of their rare displays of animosity in the nine months they have been working together. Since Berlin, everything had gone smoothly with minor bumps on the road. Their arguments were half-assed and had felt playful instead of serious, their mocking comments more fond. But this time, with three glasses of scotch down Napoleon’s throat and Illya’s sudden desire to discuss how great of a pretender the American is to have convinced everyone that everything he does is not in his self-interest, things had turned sour and ugly quick. Illya remembers narrowing his eyes in response to Napoleon’s words, but not saying anything. 

Napoleon continues. “You act like you’re high and mighty, how you’re just the _perfect_ spy, the perfect patriot, doing everything in Russia’s best interest. Well guess what, Peril? When we burned that disk, it was on your call. I gave you an opening, I gave you a choice.”

“You gave me my father’s watch,” he corrects him with a slight shake of his head.

Napoleon grins but it’s not right. “And you gave me a lighter.”

Looking back, maybe he is a hypocrite. Just a little. Because while he forces his eyes to focus on trying to find the tiniest ingenuity behind Napoleon’s every act in some twisted way to reassure himself that his feelings are wrong, and that his partner couldn’t possibly be trusted because in the end he would just leave (even if sometimes Napoleon _looks_ at him a certain way, and sometimes their skin would press together and their touch lingers), he failed to inform his heart to wait, to stay still. And when he realized his mistake, it had been too late, and his heart wasn’t his anymore. 

When everything comes to head, they’re back in Berlin for a minor mission. Gaby had coerced them into drinking a bottle of vodka Napoleon stole from the hotel bar, and was already drunk off her ass. Illya had drank enough to satisfy the chop shop girl, enough to feel a buzz in his system, but certainly not enough to lose his wits. Napoleon was on his second glass, but also had no visible signs that the effects of the alcohol had already kicked in his system. 

“Do you guys ever dream of what happens after?” Gaby had asked them breathily, body draped across the whole couch with her legs falling off every now and then to their amusement. 

Illya tilts his head to the side at the question before answering. “I am afraid that is a luxury we cannot afford in this line of work.”

_Their job requires them to be present_ , he thinks to himself. The future is far and uncertain–it’s a concept Illya has never allowed himself to think of much less dream of. He knows how dangerous his work is, and he knows every day he goes on a mission and every day he gets called ‘Agent’ is a day closer to his end rather than his tomorrow. If he even dares to think of the possibility–Illya steals a glance at Napoleon who had been frowning down his glass at the Russian’s answer– _no_. He can’t.

“I might disagree with you on that one, Peril,” Napoleon smiles. “I have less than five years to try and stay alive, and then maybe I’ll find out.”

The inevitability and reality of Napoleon’s words hit Illya so suddenly that he had to sit back in chair. He barely registers that his fingers were twitching violently against the cool glass of vodka in his hands before he runs his mouth. “Yes, because all this is just a means to an end to you, isn’t it?”

Napoleon’s smile drops, before another one, another mask comes on, this one cold and bitter and not Napoleon at all. “Why do you always do this, Illya?”

“Because it is true,” Illya’s words suddenly lost all sharpness, like speaking was tiring him out, draining him. “Because it is true.”

Napoleon puts his glass down and sighs, processing Illya’s words. “Becoming like this might not have been my choice, Peril, and ten months ago if I had seen an out, I would have taken it.”

Illya wishes he could not feel the pressing hurt in his chest then, the tightening of his throat, because he had always known this. He had always known that no matter how attached he had become to this little family they had managed to create under U.N.C.L.E, there’s a big chance his partners would not share those attachments. He had always known. He worked best alone and he’d always end up alone. Suddenly, he feels like he’s a naïve boy in Russia again, following orders blindly, never thinking past what he’s told–or in this case, what he’s felt. 

“There’s been many outs,” Napoleon admits. “I’m not under intense supervision by the CIA anymore. I could go MIA anytime and they’d never be able to find me, not after all the experiences they let me gather all these years. Do you get what I’m saying, Peril?”

_Why didn’t you take it_ , he wants to ask, _if there had been so many outs, why didn’t you go?_ Illya tries not to let his eyes linger on Napoleon’s for too long. 

“How can you do it?” He asks instead. “How can you pretend to be okay with something that you have been forced with? A lifestyle you have been forced to live, with half your body practically already buried in the ground?”

“I’ve been pretending all my life, Peril,” Napoleon looks up at him then, and sees to it that Illya doesn’t look away from his eyes. “But this? U.N.C.L.E and our team? _Us_?” 

Illya’s breath hitches at the word, but motions for the American to continue.

“It’s the closest I’ve been to who I am, and who I want to be.”

He can’t remember who moved first, just that his heart had been beating really loudly that he was afraid it would wake Gaby’s sleeping figure from the couch. He also didn’t know what ‘us’ entails, just that he’s tired of being a hypocrite, tired of pretending, because being _there_ –with Gaby passed out and snoring and Napoleon, _always_ Napoleon…It’s the closest Illya has come to being who he is, too. 

So it doesn’t really matter who moved first, so long as it ends the same way, with Illya gripping the collars of Napoleon’s shirt and their lips flushed together in a desperate kiss. It’s long overdue, Illya thinks. _But so worth the wait._

Maybe he’s not meant to be alone, after all.

Months later, when they both get over their issues and talk about the possibilities of an ‘us,’ Illya pulls Napoleon closer and kisses him sweetly on the lips before telling him, “It’s bad to steal, you know.”

Napoleon frowns at him, and Illya knows he’s expecting another one of their old issues to come up when he asks, “What exactly did I steal this time, Peril?”

Illya, with his cheeks tinted red and a smile, grabs Napoleon’s hand and places it over his chest. 

The American simpers, simply melts, before gathering himself, chuckling and shaking his head in affection. “What can I say? I’m a thief.”

Illya scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he also pulls Napoleon closer, because _yes, yes he is._


End file.
